Dropping her skirt, the girl pressed her knuckles together and approached Shanna one cautious step at a time. Through the evergreen boughs above, sunlight sifted gold sugar onto the girl’s curls.
The cat butted its sleek mottled head against Shanna’s knee and purred.
“Her name is Silly.”
As if surprised to see someone else, Shanna looked up. “Silly, hm?”
“Uh-huh.” A small giggle escaped. “It was s’pposed to be Sally. But when I was little I couldn’t say Sally. Isn’t that silly?” More giggles escaped. “Ooh.” She clamped a hand over her mouth.
Shanna’s throat pinched. Her arms ached for the snuggle of a small cuddly body.
“Oh, stop it,” she muttered.
“Are you talking to yourself?” The child edged closer. Her fingers worried her skirt. Silly, purring like a tiny fine-tuned motor, plopped to the grass.
“Actually, I was telling Silly to stop being so noisy because she’ll scare the chickadees off.”
“Chick-a…?”
“Chickadees.” Shanna pointed up to the trees. “See those little birds with black caps on their heads?”
“Nooo…uh-hm.”
“They fly real fast. See, there goes one.”
A breathless little gasp. “Oh!” Round hazel eyes centered on Shanna, then back up to the trees. “Oh…oh, lookit! There’s another!”
“Cute, aren’t they?” Shanna watched the child. An adorable half-toothed grin plumped her freckled cheeks.
“Mmm-hmm.” Curls swung as she nodded and sidled closer. Their knees bumped. Elfin face serious, the child looked at the cat, which stared upward with its tail twitching. “Will Silly catch one?”
“I don’t think so. They’re too quick and smart. They know she’s here.”
Relief swept into the girl’s eyes. “Good. I don’t want the little birdies to die. My mommy and daddy died an’ it wasn’t nice.”
Shanna’s heart stumbled.
Of course. The accident. She’d read about it killing the doctor’s sister and her husband. When had it happened? April? No, March. Mid-March. Over three months ago. A freak accident that had left a child the lone survivor. This child.
The girl’s eyes filled.
“Aw, sweetie.” Shanna tucked the child to her side. Her cheek found soft warm curls smelling of sunshine and lemon shampoo. “Hey,” she said, swallowing back the lump behind her tongue. “I bet your name is Sally. That’s why you got Silly’s name mixed up.”
Another round of giggles. “Nuh-uh. My name’s Jenni.”
Shanna offered a palm. “Well, hello, Jenni. I’m Shanna.”
Little fingers skimmed bigger ones. “You’re pretty.” The half-toothed grin. “Know what?”
“Nope.”
“I’m six.”
Shanna whistled mock surprise. “Whoa, that’s getting old.” Had the birthday been with her parents? Shanna prayed it had.
“Nuh-uh, it’s not.” Jenni hunched a shoulder to her ear, smiling shyly. “Grammy is old. She’s got white hair an’ lots and lots of wrinkles…right here.” Two fingers bracketed her eyes.
Shanna laughed. It felt good. “Is she here with you?”
“No, just Uncle M. He looks after me most. Grammy looks after me when he has to work at the clinic.”
Shanna envisioned Estelle. Kind heart. Soft, plump arms. A nurturer, the way Meredith, Shanna’s mother, had never been.
“Sometimes,” the child went on, “like when Grammy’s in California, I go to the day care.”
“Where’s Uncle M. now?”
Jenni pointed to the house. “Home. It’s Sunday. Sometimes he doesn’t work Sunday. Right now he’s doing ’portant stuff upstairs.”
What stuff kept the doctor too busy to keep an eye on his niece? Shanna looked to where the stallion grazed in the paddock.
He bites.
A shudder chased up her spine. Had the cat headed toward the barnyard, where would that have left Jenni? Crawling through the fence? Walking up to a twelve-hundred-pound beast who gouged out a strip of earth with one slash of his hoof?
Shanna pushed to her feet. “Let’s see if your uncle needs any help.” Or a wake-up call.
“C’mon, Silly,” Jenni sang to the calico. “I’m going back to the house now.”
Curling her little palm around two of Shanna’s fingers, she walked up the path, cat in tow.
“Uncle Michael doesn’t like me bothering him,” Jenni volunteered.
“Did he say so?”
“No.” She took a little skip. “But I know.”
“How?”
“He looks at me a lot.”
“Maybe he thinks you’re cute.”
Jenni shook her head, jiggling her sun-dappled curls. “Uh-uh. He never smiles. And sometimes—” she touched the bridge of her button-nose “—he gets two splits here.”
Shanna understood. Grief accounted for the pain in those gray eyes and that unsmiling mouth. But it didn’t explain Michael Rowan’s apparent disregard for his niece. Not for a second would she have left Jason unattended at this age. Or her darling Timmy, had he lived. Jenni ran ahead and squatted in front of a confusion of marigolds growing along the stone walkway. Someone obviously loved the sunny-faced plants. “This one’s the prettiest,” she said, plucking a fat bloom. “Do you like it?”
“Very much. Want to put it in some water?”
The child shook her head shyly. “In your hair.”
“My hair?” With a self-conscious hand, Shanna pushed a thick chin-length clump behind her ear. “Why?”
“’Cause Octavia wears flowers in her hair. They make her happy.” Jenni tugged Shanna’s hand. “Bend down.” Little fingers whispered like leaves in a breeze at her temple. “Mommy told me Octavia means eight.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Octavia’s my dolly. Her hair’s the same as yours…kinda messy and all over the place. Tavia—that’s what I call her when she’s good—has a bad time combing it. Do you?”
